


Malcolm Does Absaroka

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: Projection, or Malcolm Bright has a Type [1]
Category: Longmire (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Established Walt Longmire/Henry Standing Bear, M/M, Malcolm Bright's crush on Gil Arroyo, Multi, Prostate Orgasm, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Malcolm stops at The Red Pony after a case and sees a familiar face that isn't so familiar after all.AKA, Malcolm ends up spending the night and morning after with Henry and Walt.(Alternate titles include: Dicked in Durant. Save a Horse, Ride Two Cowboys. Malcolm's Continual Soiree.)
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Walt Longmire/Henry Standing Bear, Walt Longmire/Henry Standing Bear
Series: Projection, or Malcolm Bright has a Type [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695109
Comments: 29
Kudos: 56





	Malcolm Does Absaroka

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Tori for looking this over for me <3

The name of the bar makes him laugh a little, but Malcolm pulls into the parking lot all the same, desperate for a few fingers of something to wash away the case he finished hours before. He’s arrested a few serial killers during his time at the FBI already. None of them measured up to George Leroy. The man left a trail of mutilated bodies in his wake, and he had absolutely no remorse, nothing driving him to commit the acts he did, just the sheer pleasure he got out of the blood and the screams.

Malcolm shakes off the memory of finding his hideout as best he can. He’s here to get a few drinks and maybe, if his stomach can handle it, a little food to even things out. He locks the rental and approaches The Red Pony.

His first thought is that he clearly doesn’t belong here. Not in his designer suit with his slicked back hair and general air of wealth. The patrons give him lingering looks. What they don’t know is that Malcolm has nearly two decades of experience in brushing off negative attention, and so he picks the first empty table he finds, smiling at the waitress who comes up not long after. 

“First time at The Red Pony?” she jokes.

He turns on the old rich boy charm, if only to fend off more attention. He really just wants to have his drink and leave. “How could you tell?” The cheer doesn’t reach his eyes.

She laughs a little. “What’ll you be having tonight?”

“What do you have in the way of whiskey?” Whiskey has never been his favorite, but it reminds him of the occasional night spent at the Arroyo’s, of nightcaps and warm hugs. He needs a little warmth tonight. 

The waitress rattles off a list of brands, starting with the more expensive ones. When he chooses one of the cheaper ones, she stalls, eyes a bit wide as she asks if he’s sure. She’s sweet about it, thankfully. She doesn’t pressure him to get another kind, just writes it down on her pad and asks if he wants any food.

Although his stomach revolts at the idea, he should eat something. It’s been at least a day since he had anything more than candy. He tilts his head in a way Jackie always says is endearing. “What would you recommend?”

Blushing, the waitress grins. “Oh! Definitely a burger. Henry makes the best burgers.”

A burger might be a bit much, but he’s also itching to be alone for a bit. He nods. “One burger, then. Medium rare, if possible.” 

She leaves with a bit of pep in her step.

He just sits and takes in the atmosphere until she comes back. The bar is fairly packed. Locals mostly, he guesses. What he’s seen of Durant so far indicates it’s the kind of place where everyone knows each other. Otherwise, it’s definitely a Wyoming town. His gaze lingers on the animal heads mounted on the wall. He wouldn’t be surprised if many of the people around him own at least one hunting rifle. He skims over the bar itself, and his head jerks slightly as he catches sight of the bartender.

It’s _Gil_. Or rather, it most definitely isn’t Gil, but whoever it is looks a heck of a lot like the man he’s been crushing on since puberty hit. The smile is the same, even if there’s no beard surrounding it. The eyes, too, and the shade of hair, though he’s a little more tanned. The bartender’s hair is longer. He’s also not dressed at all like Gil, his flannel a far cry from the turtlenecks the other man is so fond of.

Malcolm forces himself to look away, aware that he was staring. The part of him he’s spent so long trying to repress tells him that this could be his chance. He’ll never get the man he wants, but that doesn’t mean he can’t pretend. The bartender would be perfect for that. The only difficult thing would be not calling him _Gil_.

He ruthlessly pushes those thoughts away just as the waitress comes back. It wouldn’t be kind to either of them to initiate that. He smiles again and takes the glass of whiskey. The first sip burns a path down his throat. It’s not the cheapest and yet still far from the most expensive in the bar, let alone of the whiskeys he’s tasted before. The burn brings him back to the day after his twenty-first birthday. He’d spent the day with Jackie and Gil, tagging along in the Le Mans for the first part of the day and spending the latter half at their house having dinner followed by a nightcap. Gil poured him a finger then. Malcolm sipped it and gagged. When he composed himself, he found the older man chuckling.

( _I think you might need to work up to whiskey, kid,_ he said, teeth white amidst his dark goatee.)

Or pay extra for a better brand, Malcolm thinks even as he savors the sting of the cheap shit Gil always had on hand. The taste doesn’t matter tonight, anyway. He turns the glass in his hand, watching the liquid shift.

Someone pulls a chair out across from him and settles in. A hat, wide brimmed with a decorative band, is set on the table between them.

Malcolm glances up. The man in front of him is older, perhaps as old as his parents, with the beginnings of gray in his hair. He’s dressed in jeans and a denim button up. There’s a coat over that, brown and lined with something soft at the collar. Most notably, there’s a sheriff’s badge pinned on his right. The profiler takes another slow sip of his whiskey before putting it down. He’s attractive with an air of competence and danger, just Malcolm’s type.

The sheriff sheds his coat and rolls up his sleeves. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around Durant before, son,” he says calmly, his tone low and easygoing. 

“I’m just passing through.” Knowing that he’s dealing with law enforcement and how touchy they can be — especially in small towns — he pulls out his own badge and slides it across the wooden surface. The last thing he needs is to cause trouble. He really just wants to finish his drink, try the burger the waitress recommended, and leave. “I finished a case an hour west of here earlier today. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

The sheriff gives it a cursory glance. “I’m a little less interested in your badge, Agent Bright, and a little more in your behavior. You see, I was at the bar a minute ago. You looked awful interested in the man behind it.” He smiles pleasantly, but the warning is clear in his eyes. 

Malcolm picks up his drink again. Unwittingly, his eyes drift back over to the man who is but isn’t Gil.

“I hope you’re not here to cause any trouble, son.”

His eyes snap back and he almost chokes on his whiskey. The sheriff’s smile is sharper now, and Malcolm starts to understand what’s going through the man’s mind. He’s aware that there’s a Cheyenne reservation close to Durant. He’s also aware of how common it is for crimes against Natives to go unpunished if the attacker is white. And he’s a blatantly rich white man who stared at the Cheyenne man behind the bar a little too long. He shakes his head, cheeks flushing. “I’m not, Sheriff.” He bites his lip and considers his options. “The bartender looks like someone I know.”

The man gives off an unimpressed air despite barely moving. 

So Malcolm pulls out his phone and scrolls through the gallery to the last picture he took with the Arroyos. It was the day he finished his training, the day he officially became an agent. The two of them frame him, Gil’s hand a fond weight on his neck, Jackie hugging him tight with one arm. He sets the phone on the table between them.

Picking it up, the sheriff’s brows shoot up. He looks between the photo and the bar and laughs. “Well then. Sorry about the third degree.” His smile is much more genuine as he hands the cell phone back. He lifts a hand, gaze on the bar, and nods.

The waitress comes back over, this time with a beer. “Sheriff Longmire,” she says in greeting. “Anything else?”

“I came here for one of Henry’s burgers,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s already on the grill.”

“That’ll be all then.” The sheriff returns the smile. 

When the waitress turns to Malcolm, he knocks back the rest of his drink. “I’ll have another of the same.”

Sheriff Longmire cracks his beer open and takes a sip. His eyes are trained on the profiler. There’s something appreciative there, something warm, undisguised. He’s brazen in his attraction.

So Malcolm doesn’t bother to hide his own staring. He leans back in his seat. The waitress still hasn’t come by with his next drink, and he doesn’t want to show how off center he feels right now, so he relaxes as much as he can and fakes the rest. 

“Walt,” a voice says from behind him, “are you scaring away my customers again?”

“Not this time, Henry,” the sheriff replies, grinning. He puts his hands up. “I promise.”

A dubious look on his face, the bartender rounds the table to deposit a serving tray on the edge. There are two plastic baskets with a burger and fries each, and he puts one in front of each of them, letting the sheriff’s drop the last inch to the surface, the fries jostling. Then he switches Malcolm’s empty glass for a fresh whiskey. “Is this man bothering you? I will remove him from your table if you wish.” 

He looks both more and less like Gil up close. His face is similar, sure, but the way he holds it, the expressions he makes are not quite right. He’s more… rugged or maybe it’s more accurate to say less city. Although Gil is far from pampered, he’s not out under the Wyoming sun every day like this man clearly is. The differences are more arousing than they should be.

The profiler glances back to Sheriff Longmire — Walt, apparently — and finds him watching, expectant. Swallowing, he turns back to Henry and shakes his head. “I’ve had worse company.”

With a lingering look, Henry picks up the serving tray. “I would like to see you in my office, Walt. It will not take long. Your dinner will still be warm when you return.”

And then Malcolm’s alone. Or as alone as he can be in a crowded bar. He sips his whiskey before tentatively picking up his burger. It does smell good. He takes a small bite, and privately admits the waitress wasn’t wrong.

By the time they return, he’s managed nearly half of it. 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” the sheriff says, sliding into his seat smoothly. 

Malcolm catches sight of Henry going back behind the bar. He feels something akin to disappointment but brushes it off, putting priority on whatever brought Walt back to his table. Picking up a fry, he takes a bite and studies the man’s face. 

Walt looks content for someone who just came back from an impromptu meeting. He digs into his burger with gusto.

“It’s been nice, Sheriff,” Malcolm says finally, pushing the rest of his dinner a few inches forward. “I need to book a hotel room.” 

“You don’t need to go to a hotel.” He sets his burger down in favor of taking a swig from his beer. “Look, son, I’ve been at this job for a long time. Unless I’m getting rusty in my old age, you don’t particularly want to leave.” Walt lets his gaze drift to the bar, a hint of smugness at the corners of his mouth. 

Malcolm keeps his face neutral, his body still despite the jolt of arousal he feels once he realizes what the sheriff is proposing. “Both of you?” he says in an even tone.

“Why not?”

His first thought is yes. _Yes, please._ Sure, he was initially attracted to Henry for his resemblance to Gil, but his crush on Gil was just the beginning of his attraction to older men in general. Walt is definitely his type, too. The thought of being between them… 

Something must show on his face. “Think about it,” the sheriff says, going for his burger again. “Henry won’t close this place for another hour or so.” He doesn’t speak again. He finishes his dinner and beer instead, although he doesn’t ignore Malcolm either. After his last bite, he puts his hat back on, nods at the man across from him, and strolls up to the bar.

Malcolm stays where he is, slowly sipping the rest of his whiskey. When the waitress comes by, he switches to water, whether for driving or sex, he’s not sure, and pays off what’s already on his tab, making sure to leave a hefty tip. 

\-------------

Just over an hour passes before The Red Pony closes down.

Malcolm is still there, as is Walt, who sits at the bar laughing at something Henry said. The rest of the patrons are gone by then. It’s only the staff left, and rather than watching them, the profiler offers a hand, stripping down to his waistcoat and slacks, rolling the sleeves up before lifting chairs onto tables. He brushes off the thanks.

From across the bar, Henry gives him a grateful nod as he wrangles Walt into helping him clean. 

It means more to Malcolm than it should. He turns another chair over, hoping he isn’t too flushed. Soon enough, the place is ready for closing, and he brushes his hair, now falling into his face with all of the movement, back behind his ear, a few shorter strands slipping free. 

“C’mon over here, Agent,” Walt calls out. He’s alone by the bar, Henry having gone to lock the door for the night.

“It’s Malcolm,” he says, because he prefers to hear either his name or son from the older man, something more personal, something that settles like heat down his spine, across his neck. 

“Malcolm, then.” Walt watches him walk over, quiet but intense. “I’m sure you’ve picked it up by now, but you can call me Walt. The handsome man you’ve been eyeing up all night is Henry.” He gestures to the door, where said man is finishing up with the locks. 

“You need not flatter me,” Henry says flatly, though there is a hint of a smile on his face. He turns to Malcolm. “Walt claims you showed him a picture earlier that would explain why you were ‘eyeing me up.’” There’s something satisfied in his eyes when Malcolm bites his lip, embarrassed. 

Finding the photo again, he hands over his phone. 

Henry tilts his head. “So he was not exaggerating.”

Walt simply looks smug. 

Quietly and with his gaze trained on the young man in front of them, Henry comes up close to him to return the phone, and when it’s safely in Malcolm’s grasp again, he reaches up and rests a calloused hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck, fingers skimming the collar of his shirt. 

Malcolm relaxes into it, eyes drifting shut as he swallows. He knows the man in front of him isn’t Gil. Especially now, without the face to remind him, he notices Henry’s cologne, and it’s nothing like Gil’s. Still, he can pretend.

Henry dips down to kiss him, or rather, devour him. His tongue swipes across Malcolm’s lips, seeking entrance immediately, and once those lips part, he goes right in, swallowing any moans. He breaks away with a firm squeeze of the younger man’s neck. “My apartment is upstairs. Shall we?”

Trying to catch his breath, Malcolm watches him walk away. He’s already half hard from the contact, and his mind races as he realizes that this is happening. Henry ( _Gil_ ) is going to fuck him. If the kiss was any indication, he’s going to be wrecked in the process, too. A chuckle breaks him out of his shock.

“Best not to keep him waiting, son,” Walt says, wrapping an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders and guiding him to the stairs that lead up to Henry’s apartment. 

Malcolm shivers under the weight of that arm. 

Upstairs, Henry is preparing the room. He unmakes his bed, pulls out the lube, and removes his boots in a methodical manner, though he doesn’t touch the rest of his clothes. The apartment itself is small but homey. 

Walt brushes past Malcolm as they join him, heading over to Henry for a slower, more romantic kiss, confirming the young man’s suspicions about the two of them. He deftly unbuttons his partner’s flannel to reveal more tanned skin. Especially now that Henry’s shoes are off, Walt is the tallest in the room, his presence as big and steady as his frame.

Not that Henry lets him take over completely. His own hands are busy unbuckling the sheriff’s belt, tugging his shirt from its tuck. When Walt steps back to remove it, he reaches forward and yanks the leather through frayed jean loops. 

Malcolm toes off his shoes as he watches. He can tell that they’ve done this song and dance a million times before, and yet there’s nothing routine about it. They undress each other like they’re aching for it, like they haven’t been able to touch the other in ages. The thought of being between them has him biting his lip. They clearly know what buttons to press to get each other riled up, but they don’t know much about him. Would they spend the night trying to figure him out? Or would they use him for their own pleasure, pass him back and forth, his release secondary to their own? He stifles a moan, teeth breaking delicate skin. 

It gets their attention. As soon as Henry’s shirt slips to the floor, Walt gives him a quick kiss and strides over to Malcolm. His torso is soft with age and covered in a thick layer of hair, unlike his partner’s bare chest. He grips Malcolm’s arm with a calloused hand, pulling him over to Henry. “I think you’re wearing a few too many layers, son.”

“We can help with that,” Henry says slyly. His hands are already teasing open the waistcoat, his eyes trained on Malcolm’s flushed face. He pushes it off the younger man’s shoulders. 

Malcolm lets it hit the floor. 

Molding himself up against Henry’s back, Walt reaches around him to open up his jeans, slipping fingers under the waistband to encourage them off. 

Henry frees his legs and kicks them to the side. “I think our friend could use a hand, too, Walt.” He grabs Malcolm by his tie and yanks him into a sloppy kiss. 

Malcolm moans into it, wrapping his arms around Henry’s neck, holding onto him as he’s ravaged. It’s so distracting, so engrossing, that he jolts when hairy arms slide between him and Henry, Walt deftly unbuttoning his slacks. They pool around his feet. He grinds back against the sheriff and moans when he feels the pressure of a thinly clothed erection against his ass.

Apparently, Walt removed his own jeans before attending to Malcolm. He tugs him up against his chest, breaking the kiss, and turns his head to lock their lips. 

Malcolm is vaguely aware that Henry is undoing his tie. The silk hisses through the collar of his shirt before tanned hands trail down his chest, slipping buttons through buttonholes. “God,” he murmurs, dazed, when Walt lets him breathe. He lets the two of them divest him of his shirt. 

Now all three of them stand there in nothing but their underwear. 

“What’d you want out of this, son?” Walt says across Malcolm’s ear, his head dipped low. One of his hands is splayed hot across the young man’s toned abdomen like a brand. He keeps him facing Henry and his intensity. “One of us at a time, or —” He nips at the curve of it, teeth scraping against cartilage. “— both?” 

Henry, not content to be left out, shucks his boxers. His hard cock bobs as soon as it’s free. He’s already leaking. “He enjoyed watching us as well,” he says knowingly. 

“Both,” Malcolm croaks. Any which way they’re willing to have him. He already wants to drop to his knees for Henry, to lick his dick clean of precum and swallow him whole, but what he can feel of Walt against his lower back is equally as tempting. He just _wants_. “Fuck me. _Please_.”

For the first time in a while, Henry switches his attention to his partner. He smirks and goes to sit at the head of the bed. He’s wholly unashamed of his nakedness. “You heard the young man, Walt.” He idly strokes himself. 

“Go lay back against him,” Walt says roughly, his words still grazing past Malcolm’s ear. He nudges him forward. 

Malcolm loses his own boxers. He climbs onto the bed on his knees and crawls up to Henry, hair falling in his face, because he wants to get his hands on the man once more before Walt does whatever he plans. He fits himself between Henry’s legs. His hands find purchase on either side of him. “Kiss me,” he demands.

And Henry gladly does. It’s not as aggressive as their last kiss. He keeps a firm grip on Malcolm, but otherwise he seems content to explore rather than ravage. When they part, he helps Malcolm turn around. His hard cock twitches against the young man’s back.

Malcolm rests his head on Henry’s chest. “What now?”

“Now I get you ready to be taken, son.” Walt climbs into the bed, too, hoisting Malcolm’s legs up onto his shoulders. He’s still in his boxers, but the bottle of lube Henry pulled out what feels like ages ago is in his hand. He pops the cap with his thumb. 

It sends a shiver down his spine. Behind him, Henry chuckles, and Malcolm can feel every bit of it through his back. 

Walt slicks up his fingers, warming the lube with a hum. He rubs the tip of a finger against Malcolm’s hole, but he doesn’t push in, instead tracing circles along the rim until the twitching muscle relaxes. 

“It feels good,” Henry says, tilting Malcolm’s head up so that they can make eye contact, “does it not?” 

“You know it does.” With the ease and familiarity with which Walt is approaching this, Malcolm guesses that Henry knows it quite intimately. He angles his tongue out and manages to lick the edge of a finger. 

Henry smirks. Sliding his hand up, he slips two into Malcolm’s mouth. 

Malcolm sucks on them, whines around them as Walt finally nudges past his rim, thrusting shallowly with just one finger. He can no longer see what the sheriff is doing. He can’t anticipate anything. So he focuses on Henry. He wraps his tongue around both digits and watches him. 

For his part, Henry looks annoyingly calm with just a hint of amusement. He spreads his fingers, forcing Malcolm’s mouth to part, drool building up as he tries to suck anyway.

Walt’s worked up to a full finger now, thrusting and crooking it, adding lube until the glide is effortless. Without any forewarning, he adds a second and begins to mimic what Henry is doing.

Malcolm groans and shivers, trying to fuck himself onto those fingers even as he pulls Henry’s in deeper. 

“He is _very_ eager,” Henry says, satisfied. He meets Walt’s eyes past the writhing young man between them. “Do not tease him too badly.”

With a smirk, Walt seeks out Malcolm’s prostate and rubs. 

It causes Malcolm to jolt. He bites down on the fingers in his mouth as his heels dig into Walt’s back. His cock leaks on his stomach. “Please,” he moans. It’s garbled.

“Well, if you insist.” Walt works a third in, but he avoids his prostate in favor of stretching him, scissoring his fingers, working him open. 

Henry drapes his free arm over Malcolm’s shoulder. He thumbs a nipple. “Just wait until you feel his cock.” He lets Malcolm push his fingers out with his tongue.

He pants. “What about you?” 

“If you are amenable,” Henry says slowly, eyes dark, lips quirked in a smirk, “I will use this mouth of yours.” He runs spit slick fingers against Malcolm’s lips. 

The young man swipes his tongue across them. “God, yes.” He nearly bites his lip as Walt hones in on his prostate finally, rubbing relentlessly. His legs are shaking, his hips bucking as much as Walt will allow. “ _Fuck_ ,” Malcolm cries out. “Daddy, please!”

Walt groans and works him harder. 

It’s too much, and Henry isn’t helping, his fingers rolling and tugging Malcolm’s nipple. Malcolm wails. His cock twitches, spilling white on his stomach while he quakes, caught between both men. Neither of them let up until he’s spent. He squirms as Walt removes all three of his fingers, sitting back and reaching for the lube again.

“I think Henry would agree with me when I say I’d like to see you on your knees.” Gently, Walt eases Malcolm’s legs off his shoulders. “Flip over, son. Let Daddy have his turn.”

His entire body feels like jelly, and he doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about his slip. He assumes Walt wasn’t terribly surprised. It’s likely the man pegged his tastes back in the bar. 

Henry shifts behind him, sitting up so that he can help him turn. His cock, no longer trapped against Malcolm’s back, is still hard, achingly so. He pushes Malcolm’s hair out of his face and watches how the strands slip back down. “You were very good for both of your daddies,” he says just to see him shudder again. 

Feeling both sated and needy, Malcolm lays his cheek against Henry’s erection and looks up at him, his breath puffing against the twitching cock. His eyes slide shut when the man runs a hand through his hair again. “Walt?” His voice is rough, quiet.

Walt lays two hot hands on his ass, spreading the cheeks with his palms to expose his loosened hole. “I’m here, son.” He lets go and lubes up his own dick. He hisses at the cool slick against his heated flesh. “Give him something to suck on, won’t you, Henry?”

Malcolm opens his mouth and lets Henry guide the head of his cock in. He laps at it first. There’s plenty of precum, though some of it is already drying on his back, and he cleans it all up before working his tongue flat underneath the first inch or two. He sucks.

Henry groans.

At the same time, Walt grips Malcolm’s hip with one hand, the other wrapped around his cock. He holds it until the loosened rim gives way. His slick hand settles on Malcolm’s other hip as he sinks in to the root. 

Henry threads his fingers through Malcolm’s hair, just barely holding back from fucking his face as the young man moans around him, sucking harder with every inch Walt feeds him. 

There’s a moment when none of them move. 

Malcolm trembles, still sensitive from his orgasm, his ass clenching around the thick length buried inside him. Drool builds up in his mouth. He swallows around the tip of Henry’s cock and dips his head to take more in. 

Then Walt breaks the stillness. Gripping Malcolm’s hips firmly, he withdraws until only an inch is left inside him and rocks forward. His breath hitches. “He’s tight,” he tells Henry. He rolls his hips again. And again. 

Jaw tense, Henry tentatively thrusts up into Malcolm’s mouth. His hand, wrapped in brown hair, keeps his head still. He watches carely to see if Malcolm can take it. When the young man looks up at him with slightly glazed eyes and purposefully swallows around him, he takes it as a confirmation. He builds up a pace and groans whenever Malcolm gags. 

For his part, Malcolm is content to be used. His cock is leaking again, rubbing against the sheets and making a mess with every brush against his prostate, every yank of his hair. He’s going to come between them. Untouched, overstimulated. He can’t wait. Even now, he clenches around Walt in encouragement. He teases Henry with his tongue between thrusts. If his throat was free, he’d be babbling. _Daddy. Please_.

Walt picks up the pace. His hands are going to leave marks on Malcolm’s hips for sure. The young man is so tight, so hot, and the sight of Henry losing himself at the head of the bed doesn’t help. “Inside or outside?” he says through gritted teeth.

Henry helpfully pulls out of Malcolm’s mouth to let him answer. He holds the base of his spit slick cock, on the edge himself. 

Malcolm pushes himself up just enough to wipe the drool away with the back of a hand. “Inside, Daddy,” he gasps. “Both of you.”

“You are too good for your daddies,” Henry murmurs, strained, gently guiding him back to his cock. 

Walt curses. His pace is beginning to falter as his orgasm builds, and when Malcolm spasms around him, coming for the second time that night, his legs giving out, only able to keep his ass up with Walt’s help, his hips jerk, trying to bury himself as deep in as possible as he comes. He slumps as he recovers.

Seeing his lover fall apart, Henry shifts his grip from Malcolm’s hair to the sides of his face, one tanned hand on each one. He fucks his face as fast as he dares, eyes slamming shut as Malcolm seizes around him, unable to hold back his gagging any longer. He makes it four, five more thrusts before he’s spilling down the back of his throat. He pulls back as soon as he can. A little semen dribbles out of the corner of Malcolm’s open mouth, and Henry groans, his spent dick twitching valiantly. 

Malcolm, fucked out and gasping for air, gathers it up with one shaky hand and sucks it off.

“Rest,” Henry says between breaths. He leans back and groans as Malcolm lays his sweaty head on his hip. 

It takes them a few minutes to gather the strength to clean up. The hour is late, and none of them particularly feel like getting up to shower, so they wipe each other down and fall back into the bed, now stripped of the dirty sheets, to sleep, tangled and naked. 

\---------------

Malcolm wakes up to the quiet sounds of conversation. It’s a surprise to not wake up gasping or screaming, and he feels mortified to realize that he actually fell asleep between the two older men without even a word about what they might wake up to. A hand brushes the hair out of his face. He opens a bleary eye to find Walt looking at him, amused. 

Which means that the hard body on the other side of him must be Henry. Henry shifts. He drapes an arm across Malcolm’s back, his half hard cock brushing against a pale hip. “Is he awake?” There’s humor in his voice, like he knows the answer already.

Malcolm flushes under Walt’s gaze but pushes himself over against Henry. His own dick stiffens, trapped between his stomach and the bed. He expected he would do a walk of shame back to his rental this morning, that he would pull on his rumpled suit, fetch a change of clothes, and awkwardly ask to use the bathroom before driving off to catch his flight.

But this is much more preferable. 

Walt leans over him to give Henry a languid kiss, a soft good morning born of years of companionship. Then he locks lips with Malcolm, too, this time for a rougher kiss that belies just what he wants. 

And Malcolm sits up to try and follow it. He pouts when Walt pulls just out of reach. Behind him, he can feel Henry shifting to join them in being upright, the blanket pooling as he stretches. A calloused hand drifts up his back to his neck, where it sits, thumb rubbing at his hairline. 

“I think I would like to have you this morning,” Henry says idly.

Malcolm shivers. “Please.”

Dipping down to lay a kiss, a promise, on his shoulder, Henry climbs out of bed bare and half hard. He comes back with a towel and the same bottle of lube from the night before. 

It isn’t just the two of them, however. Walt guides Malcolm onto the towel and presses him down onto his back with a firm hand. He watches as Henry settles between the young man’s legs. Then, without a word, he gets off of the bed and rejoins them behind his partner. He molds himself against Henry’s back, nipping at an ear, hands finding hips. 

Henry melts into it, grinding back against him, and when one of those hands leaves skin, held out in a silent request, he pops the cap off the lube and gives Walt what he’s asking for. He also puts some onto his own hand as he locks eyes with Malcolm. 

It doesn’t take much. Malcolm relaxes into the first touch of slick fingers against his hole, still a little loose from the night before, but the pressure of Henry’s questing fingers makes his toes curl lazily. When those fingers still, when Henry’s eyes slip shut for a beat, the realization of what’s happening makes him moan. “Are you —?” His voice is raw.

Walt smirks at him over his partner’s shoulder as he begins to work him open. 

With a deep breath, Henry moves his fingers again, a low _Walt_ on his lips. He works slowly, purposefully, and perhaps matching what Malcolm suspects is the rhythm Walt is building behind him. Every thrust, every brush against his prostate, every scissor is a tease. He’s not trying to get Malcolm off the way Walt did the night before. 

Malcolm doesn’t mind. There’s something arousing about just watching the two of them above him, not so much focused on him as on each other. Henry isn’t loud, but Malcolm can tell from every shift of his expression that Walt is doing a thorough job opening him up, teasing him, too. He thinks back on what Henry said — _It feels good, does it not?_ His cock twitches against his stomach.

Walt pulls Henry into an over the shoulder kiss, removing his fingers. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Henry breathes out. “Malcolm?”

Biting his lip, he nods. _God_ , is he ready. 

Henry eases Malcolm’s legs up close to his chest, grinning when they go easily.

The first nudge of Henry’s slick dick against his rim pulls a sigh out of him. It’s not quite as thick as Walt’s, but the length of it more than makes up for it. “Fuck, Daddy,” he says, just like he always did in his fantasies with Gil, like he often did on his one night stands. The divide between Gil and Henry is clear in his mind now, has been since the first time he talked to the bartender, but that doesn’t mean he can’t imagine. 

Once he’s fully seated, Henry plants his hands on the bed. “Go ahead, Walt.”

Although Malcolm can’t really _see_ Walt spearing him open, he feels the jolt of Henry’s hips, the way his cock throbs inside him. He hears the low groan as Henry finds himself stuck between two different heats. 

The first thrusts are tentative. Walt rocks back, pulling Henry with him part of the way, and when he fills him up again, he pushes him to fill Malcolm, too. It takes a few tries, but soon enough, they’re working smoothly. They’re a circuit, Walt at the helm, rocking forward and back and forward and back.

Malcolm is the one with the least leverage, on his back only able to take it. Every thrust Walt makes travels through Henry, nudges him deeper, and Malcolm’s cock is weeping from it all. The thrusts that hit Henry’s prostate are especially mind bending. It’s a break from the slow and steady, his hips jerking to bury himself deeper into Malcolm, fucking an _unh_ out of him. 

“Touch yourself, son,” Walt bites out. He’s obviously close himself.

His hand is almost too much, and Malcolm whines, clenching around Henry as he fists himself. He’s treated to another snap of the hips. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says breathlessly. 

Another. “I am not —” Henry groans, a ragged, desperate sound. “— going to last much longer.”

Walt takes it as a cue, and he picks up his pace, fucking Henry into Malcolm faster.

That’s what does Malcolm in. His body stills, and he paints his chest white, a stray streak hitting his chin, a broken cry escaping him.

“Look at him,” Walt murmurs into Henry’s ear. “He’s a good boy to us.”

Henry slams into his oversensitive hole. His hands dig into the still bare mattress. “He is.”

Although his eyes want to shut from all of the stimulation, Malcolm forces them to stay open. He needs to watch this. He needs to see Henry fall apart inside of him. “Fuck, Daddy.”

“Come for both of us, Standing Bear.” 

And Henry does. He thrusts forward until he’s grinding into Malcolm. His cock throbs as he spills into the clenching heat of him, encouraged by Walt’s bruising grip on his hips and the way he fucks into him, coming with a groan. His arms shake with the effort of holding himself above Malcolm. He only just barely manages to until his partner leans back and pulls him upright again. 

Like the night before, the process of getting out of bed and cleaning up is a languid one. Henry’s shower isn’t really big enough for three, but they squeeze in together anyway and wash the smell of come and sweat off of each other, hands only straying once or twice. Walt has a few sets of clothes stashed in the drawers here. He pulls out an old, worn shirt and sweatpants of Henry’s for Malcolm, and while they’re big on him, they’re not quite as big as Walt’s would be. 

On the plus side, the visual makes Henry’s eyes linger. “I will cook us breakfast,” he says, finally shifting his gaze away from the tempting sight in front of him. “I would be pleased if you two would put fresh sheets on the bed.”

Which is how Malcolm ends up tucking the edges of a fitted sheet around the mattress opposite Walt. They don’t talk, but it’s a comfortable silence. He helps him straighten out the blanket, and they’re done.

“Henry makes the best breakfast in Wyoming,” Walt promises him as they head down the stairs to the bar. 

“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” Malcolm admits.

“Well, you’ll want to eat this one.”

Shortly after they sit, Henry comes out with three plates of scrambled eggs and pancakes with sausage on the side. He looks remarkably composed for having been sandwiched between two men not an hour ago. The only sign is the dampness of his hair. “Do you drink coffee, Malcolm?”

“Yes, thank you.” The food does smell good. He resigns himself to feeling full for the rest of the day. 

Henry returns with three mugs. He sits down and starts eating, closely followed by Walt and then Malcolm.

“So, son,” Walt says between bites of egg and syrup soaked pancake, “have you been to Wyoming before?”

Malcolm drags a chunk of egg through a pool of syrup before wrapping his mouth around his fork, looking directly at him as he does. “Is that what you want to know, or are you asking if the Bureau is likely to send me out this way again?” He certainly wouldn’t be opposed. Not if it meant spending another night with these two.

Beside him, Henry chuckles into his coffee. “To be fair, Walt, it was not difficult to see through your words.”

Walt shakes his head. “Well?”

“I’ll stop in the next time I’m in the area,” Malcolm promises slyly. He hopes it doesn’t take that long.

\---------------

Malcolm leaves for the airport after breakfast with two sticky sweet kisses and a business card for The Red Pony. He tucks the card into his wallet and smiles while he waits to board.


End file.
